Rebecca Eden
by AAluminium
Summary: What can happen if you play cards with your partners? Firefight!


The leaden clouds were lowering on New York, clutching at the roofs of recently built skyscrapers. It seemed that all the lightning conductors pierced and tore lightly the linen of grey clouds, and weak sun beams were percolated through these holes. Torn away from the main shroud, its scraps were wrapping around multistory constructions like lianas; some of them clung and fluttered as undine's thick and unruly locks…

Soon, a blazing, dazzling flash of a branching lightning has sparkled, and shortly after that there was a peal of thunder. The deafening, unusually loud peal made panes shake so much that they rattled in different voices. In a rush, people were going away from formerly busy streets – no one wanted to be overtaken by a shower and be drenched.

Vito Scaletta was sitting at a card-table in one of numerous cabarets of New York. As it was in all establishment of this kind, this place was smoky, filled by noise, and smelled of the most various alcohols made in here, in USA, or imported from other countries. Since final abrogation of Prohibition in December, 1933, local bootleggers were throwing aside all restraint in real earnest, and they're buying 'laughing potion' in quantities as bar-regulars called an alcohol.

At war, Vito has learned to play Skat well enough, and now, sometimes flipping the ash off an expensive cigarette – it's old chum Joe's gift – he was demonstrating the most complete indifference to the course of the game, while his adversaries were pretty fidgeting. To no avail, looking at his inscrutable face, they were trying to guess his hand ranking – was it winning or failed; again and again Vito rejected widows, and, asked a girl to bring him some whiskey, nodded to one of the gamblers.

- Scaletta, son of a bitch, - a rival said between teeth, grinning. – Where have you learned to play like this?!

- At war. – Vito answered laconically, taking a glass of whiskey from girl's tanned hands. – Thank you.

The waitress, smiling slyly, slipped hands across his steadfast shoulders and put a bit of paper with her telephone number on it in Vito's lapel pocket.

- My name is Victoria. It means "victory". – she whispered in his ear and went away, lightly swinging her hips. Scaletta's game partners dropped their toothpicks – they clutch them in teeth during card games – sooner or later, but all of them acquire this habit. Somebody gave a whistle:

- Hey, chicklet, will you make me happy tonight?

Got a witty answer, the jester had nose in cards discontentedly to jeers of more successful comrades.

By the way, there were plenty of girls: fair-haired thin prudes, red-haired rogues, passionate brunettes – you have only to say the word, and anyone of these beauties is yours. Pert, drunk ladies were ready, willing and able, twisting around card-tables as a swarm of bees. They feignedly yelped, when someone slightly slapped a place lower a back; they laughed loudly and unnaturally at visitors' dirty jokes and paid attention to liked men in all ways.

Vito was definitely annoyed by these squeaks and guffaw, but he did not miss a beat as if he didn't notice a grasping glance of a fiery locked girl dressed up in a long silvery dress of 1930s or a charming smile of a deceitfully sweet blonde opposite him: he didn't give a curse for any whores – he'll find another time for them. The main aim now is a gaining time, in his case it meant money as well.

- That's your lead, Scaletta.

Vito, keeping silence, dropped off his cards and stubbed out his cigarette against a glass ashtray. He was almost sure in his victory.

Saw his combination, rivals were struck dumb; they're blinking dumbfounded.

- All the aces have come out! Five leads ago! – Charles Vizzini nicknamed Bulletproof Charlie hissed. He got this nickname because of his frequent participation in any rumbles but bullets (as if they were casted a spell) missed him or wounded him insignificantly. – Are you kidding me?!

- Well then, not all. – Vito reacted to it calmly. – Be attentive when you play cards, Charlie. Is it sufficiently surprising if I'll say that one of floozies has filched two yards from your pocket while you're having fun?

With hands, trembling in anger, Vizzini palpated his pockets and almost screeched not finding money there.

His partners – Enrico and Marco Piazzola – have tensed, ready to stand up for their capo. Under new costumes, iron muscles have strained.

- The moon and you appear to be, - nice female voice pierced the noise of the cabaret, which almost was similar to a singing of an angel. – So near and yet so far from me…

Everyone stared at the scene, heard the first notes of the song.

The young lady, standing at the stage and examining a public with a glance of emerald green eyes, didn't look like all actresses painted beyond recognition, with whom the painty emcee was having fun. She was out of tune with Pleiad of all girls as if a flower lotus surrounded by leaves of nettle: her flaxen hair was elegantly arranged in a wave style; there is no tons of cosmetics on her pretty face with a turned-up nose – this lady used it to accentuate eyes and lips to not to look like a blank or a white ghost from the seats. A silvery long dress with a slit to the thigh slightly exposed her smooth skin barely touched by tan.

The singer's voice wasn't high but despite it, it sounds like a purr of a cat: it was gentle and soft too. She was singing that song with a special feeling, as if each word was telling its own story to these visitors. The lady looks like a beautiful butterfly flown into the deserted house by mistake.

Vito scrutinized the singer and paid his attention to his talkers again. They hardly took their eyes off the beauty on the stage.

- Look, you don't need to have problems, - Marco gave a sardonic grin, got up from a chair slightly. This one was a broad-shouldered and stupid guy, and he was in a rank of soldier for a several years despite his birth – he was a native Italian, arrived in USA in according to advice of his boss.

- Calm down, - Vizzini gnarled menacingly, raised his arm. Piazzola gave a spiteful glance at Scaletta, but he flumped down into the chair, clenched huge fists. – Vito, you're a nice guy, - Bulletpfoor Charlie began, gazing at a victor, - it seems, you aren't foolish as well…

Scaletta kept silence.

- …then, why do you need to spoil relationships with one of the biggest clans because of a play-debt? – Charlie said ingratiatingly, whose voice was being muffled by a song of a girl on the scene.

Vizzini was looking at Vito, waiting. He gave him to understand he needs his answer.

- There is no play-debt, - Scaletta answered firmly, leaned back in the chair. – The boodle was honest until its last lead – of course, on my part, - Enrico gave a grin, and Marco scowled spitefully, ready to repulse for his capo's abuse. – I'm a killer, not a cardsharper.

Bulletproof clenched his teeth. He was known for his temper. In fact, this quality was an initial cause of all his firefights. Being a capo of a di Stagera coska, he must set an example to his soldiers: Vizzini should be more patient and restrained but he thoughtlessly ignore these directions, and Charlie smothered his own voice only got a warning from the boss.

Devoted, Vizzini knew things are not going too well in di Stagera clan: sales volume of alcohol and drugs plummeted , and racket has stopped producing a former profit. Then, Bulletproof decided to enrich himself at expense of casinos and playing newcomers: with it, he could shake the money tree until five thousand dollars by cash. It depends on player's vehemence, though – if anything, you can win a million. Thereby, took Vito for a spring chicken, Charlie fail to take into account that Scaletta wasn't a carpet knight but he took part in battles. That's why Vito wasn't afraid of the eminent capo's threats. And if Bulletproof will make a mistake and "a sucker" won't be intimidated by him, famous Bulletproof Charlie will get disrepute, and he wants it least of all.

- Now lay off, sport! – Vizzini growled, losing his control. With overfilled spite capo's eyes became bloodshot. – I watched you removed a card from your sleeve!

- I'm playing good without these tricks. Accept it, Vizzini, you failed; you have a debt – one thousand dollars. Give it to Joe. – Vito said briefly, trying to go. Marco and Enrico tensed but they didn't make any move waiting a command from their caporegime.

Vizzini were completely losing his control. His arms, looking like a gigantic ham, reached out for a pistol – large caliber Colt.

- In my opinion, you don't need another firefight, Charlie, - Scaletta noticed calmly, and glanced at the singer again. The lady, smiled radiantly, started singing _Puttin' on the Ritz_. There were two Americans among Vito's comrades-in-arms, and sometimes they managed to adjust an antediluvian radio on a necessary wave, and then they were unevenly and crudely howling to Sinatra and Berlin.

- It's none of your bloody business, - Bulletproof snarled but his fingers, fat and looking like sausages, reached out for a gun, trembled. He barely nods at his cutthroats. – Well then, come to an amicable agreement, - capo changed his voice to a deliberately regular tone with unctuous notes in it. – Neither you nor I want problems…

- There is no problem. At least, it's unwisely to exaggerate a scandal because of a play-debt.

A bluish vein swelled and pulsated on Vizzini's massive neck. As for Vito, he was completely quiet, and sometimes he glanced at the scene there was a pretty artist, smiling to a thankful half-drunk public, was starting a new song.

- Look, Scaletta, have you ever said that being fresh with persons older and more influential than you isn't the wisest thing? – Bulltproof's voice was ringing with a tension, as if it was a stretched string.

- As for you, Charlie, have you ever said that a lie with your status is equal to a betrayal? As far I know, Alfonso di Stagera doesn't approve behavior like that.

Vizzini clenched his fists so tightly that his knuckles went white. Gradually, visitors began to forget a nice singer with a charming voice and diverted their attention to a quarrel. Somebody asked her to sing _A girl from Ipanema._ The lady nodded at the orchestra, which was interested in somebody's variance, and it was a reason of its hitch.

Bulletproof has already hated "this foxy lad". Less than a year after he was brought in The organization by Joe but he has already over-indulged. And he could move to a capo rank. No, it totally cannot be allowed.

Charlie nods at his henchmen again.

- I should go. You can discuss period of repayment with Joe. – Vito said indifferently and threw twenty dollars on the table. Victoria ran momentarily and took money.

- Oh, already going out of here, boy?

Scaletta gave her a gaze and removed another paper of money – ten dollars.

- Give it to the lady who was singing _Puttin' on the Ritz_. At the front, it was my most favorite song.

- Oh, are you a front-line soldier, boy? – she lifted her eyebrows in surprise. Probably, she was used to see cripples and old men.

Vito didn't answer and turned around to the door.

- See you later, Charlie. Farewell, Enrico and Marco.

He had hardly stepped before a loud dry shot pierced the hubbub of the cabaret.

Women shrilly squealed. There was a sound of breaking glass: in fear, visitors dropped their glasses. These actions were accompanied by stomps of dozens of feet.

It seems, only the orchestra continues playing with perfect calm and a bartender melancholically, as before, pours whiskey. Somebody has screamed so hysterically, that window glasses jingled. Then, Charlie growled threateningly:

- If you open your freakin' bazoo again – you will never come out from here.

There was a dead silence, interrupting with adjusting musical instruments only. Enrico went through the floor, looking for Scaletta's corpse. Empty.

- Signore, he isn't here, - said Piazzola in a confused and a child tone, confident that he fired on two fingers below a shoulder-blade – in the heart.

- Idiot!.. Why have you shut the fuck up?! Play as before, otherwise, no one will come out from here on their own feet! – Vizzini roared.

The lady began to sing irresolutely.

Vito, learned at the front, understood that make an unprotected back to an angry enemy is an imprudent decision at least. He predicted members of the noble family di Stagera will behave like pillagers – they will shot in the back, being fear for their own skins, and that's the reason Scaletta, chosen the right time, fell flat and rolled behind the next table. The time spent on stopping the turmoil among the visitors of the bar, was enough to sneak into the room behind the scenes to find out Joe Barbaro entertaining with another prostitute.

- Wait a minute, dolly, - he muttered with displeasure, lighting up a cigarette – it was an integral part of his appearance. – Vito? What happened?

- Get a gun and go out of the comfortable nest. Three against one.

Giving credit for Joe, he didn't ask questions but fulfilled friend's requirement.

- We should separate, we need to lay Enrico out.

- Finish off this son of a bitch, - Barbaro hissed, checking rounds, - and that's that.

- If need be.

Joe's face fell.

- If need be? He did want to kill you!

- It's an occupation of ours, Joe, just the occupation, - Vito gave a light smile. Then, his face became serious again. – Go to the right, I'll be on the stage.

Barbaro nodded and went out of the coulisses from orchestra's side. Threatened musicians with a gun, he sneaked to an edge of the scene like a cat – it was sufficiently difficult with his build – and aimed. But he will finish off this Enrico nevertheless, even he's going to get a bullet through his head himself. This bastard pretty annoyed him.

Because of heavy drapes Vito couldn't watch well what's happening in the hall, but there is no alternative: if he shoots from above he will be spread before the eyes for attackers; if he tries to get to the entrance, he takes chances to be wound by a shot before he gets to the doors. Well, it's not his first time and Joe will backstop him. Forces were about equal, to entertain Enrico's shooting skills: he shoots like Zues The Thunderer but as for Marco, with his shortsightedness, hardly drops bottles standing in three steps from him. As well, it was impossible to disregard Vizzini himself – in spite of his outward awkwardness, he is a pretty nice shooter, got limp, though…

- Come on, come on!.. step forward… and.. yes! – Joe aimed and fired. A bullet wounded Piazzola in a temple. He staggered but didn't fall.

- There! – the wounded man cried, and began to discharge the barrel of his revolver in the Joe's direction not paying attention to other people occurred here by some quirk of fate just at the time Charlie Vizzini has wanted to play a game of cards.

_«Too early!»_ - Scaletta moaned mentally, staying at his cover. Now he couldn't help his friend: it was their personal scores, but if he betrays his presence before its due time he'll get a bullet in the forehead. Vito slightly slid apart the coulisses. Marco dashes around as if he's taking part in a gunfight at the first time, Vizzini, not paying attention to Enrico, looking for Vito with cold eyes. Bad thing.

Scaletta aimed and shot. Missed. A round didn't even brush against his skin, but Charlie didn't realized where from the shot rang out.

The hall was clouded by smoke, ears were stuffed up by whizz of bullets and gunpowder, burst from a muzzle, a tart smell of spilt whiskey hung in the air, mixing with sweetish-loathsome odor of blood. Here and there, corpses scattered on the floor; women cried, and squealed too loud, hidden into the most distant corners. Only the orchestra continued to play, accompanying the lady-artist, singing Vito's favorite song.

- He's shot me, can you beat it?! This son of a bitch has released two fucking bullets! – breathing deeply, roared Barbaro, pressing his hand to the shoulder. He and Scaletta sat behind and under the bar and reloaded their guns.

- I was shot in the knee-cap at war. That's worse, - the partner grunted. – How many rounds do you have?

- Just six. Nothing more. You?

- Four. We have two ways. First: we're finishing them right now. Second: they're finishing us right now. Anyway, I don't want to have a talk with Don di Stagera about this subject.

- Do you really sure, you'll be able to talk to him? Look, those swashers are dreaming of walloping the living daylights out of you!

- Well, they can dream on. – narrowed his lids, Vito shot Marco. He dropped and fell silent. Slowly, a large crimson-red stain was flowing under his huge massive body.

- I'll take the rest Piazzola; you've got Vizzini yourself.

- No problem.

Vito rolled under a table and began to shoot Charlie's feet; Barbaro didn't allow wounding Scaletta, diverting Piazzola's attention: it wasn't too easy with six rounds. For them, guys from a criminal organization, it seemed like an amazing game, just like poker – except that blood seethes more energetically when you feel real danger. What's the human life? Just a thread, ready to break in any moment! Then, what's the difference how earlier it break? If it isn't broken by a pistol, it is done by the government, and it's going to be slower than a stray bullet. You should thank God for this easy death, you should thank God, Vito thought. He wouldn't refuse to die in a firefight, supposing, it could add some mystery to his humble person in his descendants' eyes… Vito didn't waste his bullets in vain. He wounded Vizzini in the leg, just a little below the knee, and, practically without any aiming, in the collarbone. Vizzini howled in the pain and began to fire to the left and to the right, not making out where the assailant is.

Suddenly, everything felt silent. The song was chopped off. There was a thud of a falling body. The singer crashed down, terrifically wheezing and plugging up her own bloody throat with tanned thin hands; blood coated her glittering dress, the lady was choking but still trying to find a way to breath deeper and carry on the song. People, who were still alive, couldn't help her: perhaps, they understood that no one can help her anymore, or, maybe, they were afraid of being next to her.

Finally, Barbaro hit a target: the last bullet of his revolver struck straight into Enrico's eye. Enrico shot the ceiling and fell on the floor, unnaturally stretched out his limbs. Vizzini went off, dropped his empty and useless pistol, used a second hitch of the rival.

Vito wiped blood off his cheek and looked over himself. Nothing fatal: the round just scratched him. As for Joe, he practically bled profusely but in spite of this, he still rejoiced that he "bumped off, damn it, bumped off Enrico Piazzola himself!" But he had swimmy vision, and he sat in the nearby chair, pouring intact glasses with intact whiskey.

Vito glanced at the stage. The beautiful singer was looking at the ceiling with unseeing eyes; he face expressed surprise with horror: it seemed, she felt like a character of an action, thriller film and didn't believe in her death; she didn't believe that her role in this film is finished.

- She's a baby doll, isn't she? And sang… like… as if she sold her soul to the Devil, - Joe commented, noticed Scaletta's glance. – Well, maybe she has done it. Look at her kicking the bucket?..

Vito gazed at him, astonished. It was unusual to hear things like that from Joe's mouth.

- What? I've heard all of them. They don't sing in that way. Her voice went from her soul. Ah, have you stuck on?

- No, just surprised by her talent. – Scaletta approached the lady and closed her eyes. – What was her name?

- Rebecca Eden. She'd be a 20-year-old woman tomorrow, - sipped whiskey, Barbaro said. – Come on, tell me that I was unbelievable! Straight in the eye, yeah!

Vito didn't respond and looked at the lady. "She'd be a 20-year-old woman tomorrow". Just think of that, this unknown artist, Rebecca Eden, was in the same age as his sister…

- Hey, aren't you glad, are you? – asked Joe in a disappointed tone. – We've done with them!..


End file.
